


you know the way to make me lose control

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Dancing, Drunkenness, Dry Humping, F/M, Fakeout Makeout, Flirting, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-23 11:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12506328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: If you’d told Sansa Stark that she would one day find herself tabletop dancing with a shirtless Jon Snow to a Mariah Carey song at one of the Tyrells’ raucous parties… -well…- It’s just a lot to take in. Suffice it to say, she’d never quite expected this—and she certainly never expected what comes after.Or, as advertised on Tumblr: the sweaty, grinding, fakeout makeout wallsex jonsa fuck fic(title from “emotions,” by mariah carey)





	you know the way to make me lose control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dropofrum (95echelon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/gifts), [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



The air is sticky with sweat and tequila and the promise of sex, but forget about getting nailed—as far as Sansa is concerned, she’s getting nothing but hammered tonight.

She makes her way through the crush of the crowd, taking hearty sips from one plastic cup and then the other (she does have two hands, after all). Lively as Margaery and Loras Tyrell’s parties tend to be, Sansa finds it easier to cope when she has a good lead on her blood/alcohol level. She takes another swig from her second cup and thinks of it as a survival technique.

The lights are low and atmospheric, the open floor plan of the Tyrells’ mansion pulsating with bodies and the walls thumping with the bass of Loras’ playlist blaring from the stereo system.

By the mercy of the universe, Loras has impeccable taste in music—so long as you’re not a twenty-something dude more interested in manly posturing than having a good time, that is. But if they want to stubbornly stick to their gender norms, so be it; Sansa has ruled out many a sexual partner this way, and has saved herself a good deal of trouble, too.

Harry had never liked coming to the Tyrells’ parties precisely for this reason. He’d never dance with her, preferring to hang around with the other poor, put-upon men playing beer pong in the corner or doing keg stands out on the patio. Sansa hadn’t begrudged him of this—she could just as easily (and more pleasantly) dance with Margaery and Loras, Mya and Myranda, and whoever else happened to take her by the waist to the beat of the music.

What she _had_ minded, however, was Harry’s tendency to stray. The Tyrells’ place was always packed, but you don’t fuck another girl at a house party when your girlfriend is present and popular, and _not_ expect her to find out about it. He’d known it was a possibility, at least; he just hadn’t cared.

Exhibit A: She’d broken things off with Harry nearly two months ago, and he’s still showing up to the Tyrells’ as if nothing’s changed. Sansa had thought he was just here to pick up someone new, but word around tonight's party has it that he’s looking for her.

He wants to _talk_ , apparently, Sansa ruminates as she scoffs into her second drink. Not that she intends to indulge him, of course. The upswing to the breakup was that now she’s under no obligation to talk to him, and she’s not about to give that up.

She’s here to double-fist her drinks and dance to her heart’s content, all without worrying over what Harry’s up to without her.

As it stands now, she’s got her drinks and she doesn’t give a _shite_ about Harry, so all that’s left is to find Loras or Renly or one of the girls and hit the floor in a drunken but unashamed groove. That’s simply what Sansa’s crowd does best.

But before she can catch Margaery’s eye, someone catches her by the arm and hauls her up onto one of the Tyrells’ ornate but sturdy tables, where a small crowd of shirtless men are having the time of their lives. Now _these_ are Sansa’s kind of men—half-naked, uninhibited, and totally vibing on the Mariah Carey song that’s just started spinning.

Harry Hardyng doesn’t stand a chance.

This conclusion is only furthered solidified when Sansa registers who, exactly, hauled her up on the table in the first place. Her stomach flutters, her heart jerks, and her jaw drops in surprise.

_“Jon?”_

“Hullo, Sansa.” Jon’s grin is too wide to be sheepish, but there’s a blush on his cheeks that has little to do with the heat in the room. His hand slides to her hip and he pulls her in close, his breath hot with the stench of beer when he mutters, “Think Harry nearly spotted you. Thought I’d save you the trouble of telling him off.”

Sansa glances around the room, less interested in looking for Harry and more concerned with getting her bearings while Jon’s palm is sliding across the strip of skin peeking out from between her top and skirt.

He smells like sweat and beer, but somehow he makes it work. Maybe it’s the fact that his cut, bare torso is practically flush with her scantily clad one, or perhaps you just don’t care overmuch what someone smells like when you’re head-over-arse in love with them.

“What happened to your shirt?” she blurts out. _Find your chill, Stark._ Her hands move to his shoulders and she gives him a cheeky grin. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Jon chuckles. “Like that, do you, Stark?”

“It’s like Christmas in August.”

“You’re telling me.” Jon’s gaze flits down to her exposed collarbone, to her chest, to her hips. Apparently realizing what he’s doing, he abruptly clears his throat and meets her eye once more.

Sansa privately admits that she’s a bit disappointed—she’s certainly not going to say she doesn’t want Jon Snow checking her out, no, Sansa would never tell such a bald-faced lie as that—but he’s still holding her hip so it’s not _all_ bad.

“Lost my shirt when Pyp and Grenn shook up their beers and doused the rest of us,” Jon explains, “because they think they’re so fuckin’ clever. But we’ve had a fair few people throwing banknotes at us all night, so I s’pose they’re not as dumb as I thought.”

“I’ll have to thank them,” Sansa says with the devilish little smirk Margaery taught her. “And thanks to you, by the way, for saving me from Harry. Your efforts are appreciated, if a tad… unorthodox.”

Another laugh escapes Jon then, this one more nervous than the last. Sansa likes to think that hitch in his breath is because of her—maybe the light scrape of her fingernails against his shoulder, or perhaps the faintest of rolls of her hips into his to the tune of the music, or maybe it’s the pointed way she licks her lips while eyeing his. She’s not picky.

“Might as well stick around for a dance?” Jon suggests, half-teasing, half-hopeful. “You never know who’s going to start throwing money at you just for dancing on a table. It would actually be financially irresponsible for you to leave now.”

Sansa can’t decide if the line is smooth or if it’s completely, Jon Snow-patented _weak_ , but she likes it all the same. He must be as drunk as she is—not so much that he’ll regret this in the morning, but just enough to tell the truth straight to her face. 

The low lights make mischief sparkle in his eye, his breath is warm on her lips and his hand hot on her hip, and Sansa has exactly zero desire to tell him no or otherwise pretend that she doesn’t want this—whatever _this_ ends up being.

 _Harry never danced with her._ And while she’d like to do a whole other kind of dance with Jon Snow too, half-naked on a table in the middle of a party is a pretty close second on her erotic wish-list.

“Well I’m nothing if not frugal,” she says on a too-dramatic-to-be-real sigh. Her hands smooth over his shoulders again, and in one concise, almost indecipherable move, her body is aligned with his. “If I start shirking my fiscal sense now, my mother would be dreadfully disappointed.”

Jon’s free hand takes her other hip, fingers flexing and grip tugging, and he snorts, “I’m going to ask you _not_ to mention your mum again while I’m dirty dancing with you on a tabletop.”

For one wild, ludicrous moment, Sansa considers teasing him— _“Oh, we’re dirty dancing now, are we?”_ —but she mercifully stops herself before she can put any potential doubts in Jon’s head. Better to just let her drunken sensibilities get the best of her, to get carried away with the dim lights and the blaring music, so she can grind on him in the midst of a crowd without obsessing over what sort of trouble she’s asking for in doing so.

They start out fast and fun, laughing at their missteps and his mates’ attempts to sing along. Edd and Pyp and Grenn and even usually mild-mannered Sam are whipping their shirts around their heads and taking shots from offering passersby.

But then, all at once, Jon’s body is moving sinful and sweet against hers, and Sansa doesn’t even _think_ about dropping her mother’s name again to kill the mood.

Sansa had never known Jon Snow to be much for dancing, but her assumptions don’t stop his hips when they roll against hers in a steady rhythm. It must be the alcohol and the atmosphere, she tells herself as she gets lost in it with him. She’s not complaining—he may smell like sweat and booze, but she bets she’s no better; and anyway she can’t bring herself to care when his eyes are on her mouth and his thumb dips _just so_ beneath the top of her skirt.

Between his scent and the way he’s touching her, all Sansa can think about is sex, everyone else in the room be damned.

The music is bubbly and up-tempo—it’s Mariah Carey, for chrissakes—but Sansa’s muscles tense in some kind of excitement as the beat carries on and she gets closer to Jon with every note. Her hands slide over his shoulders and she can feel his muscles tense, too. One of his hands stays on her hip, the thumb beneath her skirt stroking and stoking the heat emanating from her skin; the other caresses the small of her back and brings her against the hard lines of his body. She grinds her hips and Jon’s hand on her back flexes as he guides her movements.

The moody, flashing lights around them seem to flicker and then blare like neon signs shouting _Sex Sex Sex_ , and Sansa feels dizzy and drunk and so wound-up that she might very well come against Jon’s thigh if he moves it _that way_ again.

His breath is hot and harsh on her cheek when he leans in to whisper in her ear, “Tell me to stop if you want to.”

A flutter of shock and nerves erupts in her stomach, but Sansa twists her fingers in his hair and shakes her head. She doesn’t want him to stop. To prove it, she rolls her lower body against his with more force, more conviction, and she lets the little sigh of relief she’d been holding back to escape at last.

She laughs—a delighted but heady sound— when Jon bites her earlobe. His hand slips down to her arse and yanks her up against him, closer and closer still, and he grinds on her like he has every intention of fucking her right here on the table in the middle of a party.

(Not that anyone’s paying them any mind. Between the low lights and loud music and the free-flowing booze, nobody knows what anyone else is up to and they couldn't care less if they did.)

He’d be fucking her right now if she could get her skirt up, Sansa realizes with a delicious little thrill when the hardness beneath his jeans teases her clit under the tight faux-leather of her skirt. She whimpers, the sound just touching the stubble on Jon’s cheek, and his murmur of “You like that?” is hot and full of promise.

 _“Yes,”_ she whispers back, tongue flicking at his jaw.

She doesn’t hear Jon’s groan so much as she _feels_ it, his lips parted and brushing her neck when he grinds his erection against her cunt and he grounds out her name— _“Sansa—”_

There’s a tug on the laces of her boots, and Sansa looks down to see Margaery trying to get her attention. She puts a hand to Jon’s chest and pushes him back, gently and just half a step, and she hears him mutter a curse when he spots Margaery, too.

“Harry’s looking for you!” Margaery mouths. “He just left the kitchen, you might want to hide in there for a mo’ while he makes the rounds.”

Sansa nods, slanting a glance at Jon, who nods in return and hops off the table behind her. Margaery lends a hand to help her down, and holds on tight as they weave their way through the crowd to the relative quiet of the kitchen at the back of the house. There are a dozen or so others therein, drinking heavily and arguing animatedly about their favorite television program, but the air’s not so thick and the lights not as dim as they are in the main room.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Margaery mutters to Sansa when they duck into the kitchen a few steps ahead of Jon. She smirks at her friend. “But you might find it easier to hook up with Jon if Harry doesn’t sniff you out first.”

“Appreciated,” Sansa mutters back, and the pair of them burst into a stream of tipsy giggles when Jon appears, swiping a hand through his mess of curls and grinning bemusedly at them.

“You’ve got some moves, Snow,” Margaery chirps as she pops a bottle of tequila and drinks it straight. “Who knew?”

Jon tilts his head towards Sansa, and his hand slides across her lower back. “Just following her lead.”

Margaery shakes her head in good humor. “Can’t believe this one’s straight. You’re a right side better than Harry, for sure.”

“Yeah, well…” There’s a tightness at the corners of Jon’s mouth at the name, and his fingertips flex into Sansa’s spine. “If I’m never not, feel free to drop a piano on my head.”

“She’ll hold you to that,” Sansa warns, and Margaery nods.

“We’ve got six pianos in this house,” she says, and points the bottle of tequila at Jon before taking another swig and offering it to Sansa in turn. “Plenty to spare.”

“Good to know,” Jon says, his eyes on the pucker of Sansa’s lips when she takes a shot.

It’s not long before Margaery leaves them to it. She shoots Jon a pointed look and Sansa a wink before she sidles off to join the debate around the breakfast bar. Sansa hears her tell one of her guests, “I’ve written my thesis on the structure of romantic storytelling, so sit down and get ready to learn every reason why you’re wrong,” before she turns her attention back to Jon. There’s a lazy smile on his lips, but his gaze darkens when it meets hers.

He rubs an insistent circle into her lower back and, before she can so much as dream up what to say next, he asks, “Wanna go back out there?”

The prospect of dry humping Jon Snow to completion in the middle of a packed room is too tantalizing to deny, so Sansa presses her lips together in a wicked little grin and nods her assent.

Jon’s fingers thread through hers and it’s warm and soft and somehow familiar, and he leads her back out into the darkness of the main room. There’s an ache low in Sansa’s stomach, and it flares and pools through her veins when Jon’s hand slips to her wrist and she’s _sure_ —so sure—that he can feel her pulse trip wildly over itself at his touch.

Her lustful haze is broken, though, when she spots Harry making his way back towards the kitchen.

“Oh, for fu—” Sansa stops herself mid-curse and pulls Jon to the right, where a long corridor would take them to the safety of the Tyrells’ guest wing, were it not for the sheer amount of amorous couples going at it in the hall.

Sansa’s head is swimming with more alcohol than sense, the latter of which only abandons her completely when she catches another glance of Harry nearing their lack of a hiding spot.

“Sansa?” Jon is all concern and a little confusion when his hand glides across her hip. “You alright?”

She’s never been less alright in her life, but Sansa nods frantically when Harry pops into view again, and she slides her hands across Jon’s shoulders like she did when they were dancing. Her sense has abandoned her, it’s true, but she reasons that, should Harry glance down the corridor, he’ll only mistake Jon and Sansa for just another couple taking advantage of the nearest wall.

“Call me crazy later,” she tells Jon, whose brow furrows in further confusion, “but for now, just go with it.”

“Sansa—?”

But whatever he’s about to ask is lost between Sansa’s lips when she kisses him.

She expects Jon to freeze, to hesitate, to wonder what the hell she’s on about, but no such reaction passes. Instead, he moans—a low, gruff sound that travels straight to her aching cunt—and his arms wrap more fully around her and haul her body against his.

Encouraged, Sansa deepens the kiss and Jon matches her in frenzied want. His breath is harsh and hers panting when she gets a taste of his tongue, when his hands dip under her shirt to explore the bare expanse of skin that's waiting for him.

When his thumbs brush the band of her bra, Sansa’s sense returns just enough to pull away, to tell Jon she’s sorry, she panicked, she shouldn’t have pounced on him—although she _did_ intend to pounce on him at some point tonight, but not quite like this—but unless she’s very much mistaken, Jon _whines_ when she breaks the kiss and he _pouts_ at her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts over the music and the sounds of the couples around them. She’s still panting, and she’s sure her pupils must be as blown as Jon’s. “I just—I saw Harry and I—”

She glances over Jon’s shoulder and is relieved to see that Harry’s disappeared. Hopefully he’s ready to give up whatever game he’s playing, but frankly that’s not much of Sansa’s concern. Especially not now, when Jon’s still tugging at her bra and looking at her mouth.

“You kissed me because of Harry?” he wants to know. His eyes flick to hers to search her expression for some hint as to what he should do next.

“I—well, yes and no, it’s just—” Sansa huffs, impatient with herself. “I didn’t want him to see me, I wanted—”

 _You_ , she thinks, and Jon seems to know.

A grin touches his lips when he touches them to her jaw and he asks, “Did you want to kiss me, Sansa?”

“I did.” And her fingers curl in his hair, her eyes drift shut when his mouth works behind her ear. “I still do.”

“Good.” The kisses he plants on her neck grow desperate, furious, demanding. “That’s all I wanted, what I needed to hear.”

It happens quickly, in a rush, but they stumble past the couples in the hall, kissing and groping all the while, and into an empty guest bedroom. Jon kicks the door shut behind him and turns abruptly, caging Sansa against the wall, never tearing his mouth from her—her lips, her ear, her throat. He nips at her chin and thumbs her lips apart to touch her, to taste her, to lick his tongue over the rum punch taste in her mouth.

The music down the hall is nothing but a muffled, faraway ghost, but Sansa’s hips undulate against Jon’s the same way they had on that tabletop. There’s no one around now who might catch them in the act, so Jon pins her into the wall and thrusts up into her like there aren’t layers of clothes separating them. Her skirt rucks up and his hand slips between their grinding hips to tease her over her panties.

“I would’ve gotten you off in the middle of that room,” Jon tells her, voice choked when her own hand palms him through his jeans. “ _Fuck_ , San—”

“You like that?” Sansa echoes his earlier question, her voice dropping to match his deep, Northern baritone.

Jon chuckles before he kisses her, hard and fast, and breathes sharp and heavy when he tugs her panties down her legs. He wastes no time dipping two fingers inside her, groaning when she clenches and sighs, the sound long and throaty in ecstasy because when he touches her, he does it _right_. He touches her like he wants her.

He takes her behind the knee and hitches her leg over his hip, pressing closer closer _closer_ , and Sansa’s hands trail down his bare chest while she sucks a hickey near the hammering pulse in his throat. Her fingers trace the line of his stomach before latching onto the button of his jeans, teasing—

“Take them off,” Jon orders, gruff and drunk on her. He bites her earlobe again and sucks on it to soothe the delicious ache he leaves behind. “Take them off, Sansa, I wanna fuck you.”

“Bossy.” But she grins and obliges, and Jon chuckles again when he kisses her like he never means to stop.

He kicks out of his jeans, but swats Sansa’s hand away when she goes for his boxers next.

“Want you now,” he murmurs, pushing the material aside to free his cock. He gives it one, two quick strokes and then he _takes_ her, and Sansa’s toes curl in time with her moan.

Jon takes her other leg over his hip, swearing violently when the new position makes him go deeper, harder, and he can feel her hot and wet and pulsing for him, all for him…

“ _God_ , that’s good, you feel so good…” Sansa licks behind his ear and Jon attacks her neck, his thrusts slamming her into the wall over and over and over.

Her hands thread through his curls and twist and tug. Their skin is salty with sweat, mouths sweet with wanting and too many drinks, hands impatient and everywhere, everywhere. Jon sucks on Sansa’s bottom lip, then parts his mouth over hers and _plunders_ with needy, clingy, reckless abandon.

The heels of Sansa’s boots dig into Jon’s lower back while he ruts her against the wall, harder and harder, breathing shallow and chests aching. The room is dim and loud with their moans, whimpers, whines, and Jon whispers all manner of filthy endearments in her ear, the underside of her jaw, the hollow of her throat and the dip of her collarbone and the swell of her breasts over her top.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he mutters. He lowers his mouth to the soft skin of her tits and sucks, sucks until there are purple marks all around her cleavage. One hand holds her leg in place as he pumps into her, and the other trails to her clit.

“I wanna get you off,” he says. “Just like I wanted when you were riding my leg in front of all those people, sweetheart, tell me how—”

“Faster,” Sansa gasps when he hits her _just_ _right_.

Her head slams against the wall with the force of his rapid thrusts, but she hardly notices as she moves her hand over his. She guides his movements, quick and short, his thumb on her clit while his cock takes her cunt and his touch and his breath and his body flush against hers makes her see stars.

She comes with his name on her lips, and he follows the same.

His mouth finds hers, hot and open, sweet and slow, as he lowers her feet to the ground. Her legs shake and she stumbles, but she only falls further into Jon, who presses her back against the wall. His heartbeat pounds into hers. Sansa’s arm is slung around his waist like she couldn’t let go even if she wanted, and Jon’s hands trace her waist with something like reverence.

His fingers find hers and tangle, squeeze, and he kisses her sweeter.

“God damn,” he whispers when they part. He leans his forehead against hers. “God _damn_ , Sansa.”

“Eloquent,” she teases, her calm and cool facade utterly wrecked by the way she still can’t catch her breath.

Jon grins. The hand that’s not holding hers sweeps across her hip bone. “You gonna let me take you home later? I’ll be more eloquent when I get you in my bed.”

He nudges her nose with his. “Promise.”

“You wanna take me home?” Sansa asks through a smile and that all-too-familiar flutter of her heart that’s got everything to do with Jon _bloody_ Snow.

“Mhmmm.” Jon steals a peck, then pulls their joined hands to his lips so he can kiss her fingers, one by one, hopeful eyes on hers all the while. “I figure Harry won’t come looking for you at mine, and I want you all to myself.”

Sansa laughs, and Jon looks at her like she’s got the world on a string.

“You bet,” she agrees. She presses her own, kiss-swollen lips to the palm of his hand. “Take me home, sweetheart, and maybe I’ll dirty dance with you a little more.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Jon’s still grinning. “I live with Sam, you know, and he’s got Mariah Carey’s entire discography just _begging_ to be put to use.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” Sansa laughs again. She can’t seem to stop, and it feels just as good as Jon’s hands on her. “I’m _definitely_ all yours tonight, and maybe tomorrow, too.”

Jon hums, and tightens his grip on her hand comfortingly, adoringly, with a note of finality that leaves Sansa’s head swimming more than the booze and more than the little bump where her skull had met the wall.

“As long as you’ll have me,” Jon tells her, and Sansa thinks that something like _forever_ sounds pretty good to her.


End file.
